Combed Out Part 4

"Fall in! Yer'd better put a jerk in it--yer won't go till yer've finished. It's a task job. Yer didn't s.h.i.+ft 'alf the sleepers this mornin'--there's another couple o' thousand left, so get a b.l.o.o.d.y move on!"

The grumbling was renewed in the ranks.

"It's no good yer b.l.o.o.d.y well grousin'. The work's got ter be done.

Carry on!"

Our tedious round began again. The distance from the old stacks to the new increased steadily. We tramped through mud and slush in wind and snow, hour by hour.

"I'm goin' ter 'ave a rest--I've 'ad enough o' this," said my partner. I felt annoyed, for although I was stiff and tired and sore, I had again relapsed into that state of dulled sensibility in which my limbs seemed to move automatically and time to have no existence at all. Although I was aware of pain I was yet indifferent to it. And now my partner was going to drag me back to full consciousness. I gave way to his wish and we leaned against a stack. We stayed there with several others until we were discovered by a Corporal who chased us out and abused us roundly.

We went on with our work. The brief rest had only done harm, for the first sleeper that was subsequently laid on to my shoulders produced such a pang that I had to close my eyes for a moment. Nor could I set my stiff limbs in motion without difficulty. I silently cursed my partner.

The dreary hours dragged on. I tried hard to fall back into my former state of blurred consciousness, but the very attempt itself frustrated the effort. I was full of growing resentment against my partner. My dormant anger was aroused, it had found an object and, against all reason and fairness, demanded vengeance. I pretended to stumble and jerked the sleeper so as to hurt his bruised shoulder.

"'Ere, what yer doin' of?" he shouted, in great pain. "Christ Almighty--be a bit careful!"

In a moment I regretted what I had done and said, "Sorry, I stumbled over something--I hope I didn't hurt you!" I felt ashamed and all my resentment vanished. Thereupon I became too oppressed in spirit even to look at my watch.

We had been splas.h.i.+ng and squelching to and fro, I did not know how long, when an officer arrived. He stood still for a moment and watched us work, and then he said:

"The job's got to be done this afternoon, my lads, but I'll try to get you a day off to-morrow. Who's in charge of the party?"

We pointed to Sergeant Hyndman. He was sitting in an improvised shelter in front of a fire, sipping hot tea. He had spent the greater part of the day there and had not observed the arrival of the officer, who was walking slowly towards him. Suddenly he jumped up and there was an exchange of words which we could not hear, although we tried hard to do so. The Sergeant came over to us, looking rather disconcerted, so we were able to guess the nature of the conversation.

We felt greatly encouraged and worked with renewed vigour. The stacks vanished one by one. Time appeared to slip by with gathering speed. A kind of common rhythm seemed to pervade our movements as we plodded to and fro with mechanical regularity.

The officer went up to the stacks from which we were removing the sleepers and made a mental calculation. "Only four hundred sleepers left now, boys--that's five apiece or ten to each pair. You'll soon be finished, and I've ordered lorries to take you home!"

His kindness did us good and we worked with a kind of grim determination. My partner was coming to the end of his strength. His knees were bent and from time to time he staggered, jerking the sleeper so as to make me wince with pain. But he kept up obstinately. We counted the sleepers as we received them--one, two, three and so on. This occupied our minds and the time pa.s.sed all the more quickly. Eight ...

nine ... ten! At last our work was done! "Thank G.o.d," said my partner with deep conviction. We rested against one of the newly erected stacks, but it was not long before Sergeant Hyndman came striding up and addressed us angrily. He had evidently been snubbed by the officer and was giving relief to his mortification by bullying us.

"What yer doin' there? Swingin' it on yer mates, are yer? Call yerselves sportsmen, do yer? Get back an' b.l.o.o.d.y well do yer bit!"

"We've done our share--there were four hundred sleepers left, which makes ten journeys for each pair. If it doesn't work out it's because some of the others have been swinging the lead behind the stacks. We've carried our ten and aren't going to do any more."

"Why d'yer let 'em swing it on yer? It's yer own bleed'n' fault! D'yer think I'm goin' ter stand over yer all day? Some o' you blokes is as 'elpless as a lot o' kids--yer want a wet nurse to look arter yer!"

"That's what _you're_ there for, to look after us!"

"Don't b.l.o.o.d.y well tell me what I'm there for! I know me job an' don't want no tellin'. Get stuck into it an' don't let me 'ave any o' yer b.l.o.o.d.y lip, else yer'll be up fur orderly room--I shan't give yer another warnin'!"

Seeing that argument was useless, we walked away and crossed the railway lines. My partner growled: "I 'ope I meet 'im in civvy life--I'll give 'im somethin' ter think about--I've seen better things'n what 'e is crorlin' about in cheese!"

There were fifty or sixty sleepers left. We dawdled on our way back, hoping that there would be enough men in front of us to clear the lot.

The officer shouted: "Come along, my lads, sharp's the word and quick's the action! You'll be finished in a few minutes."

The khaki-clad flock straggled forward. The remaining sleepers were loaded on to our shoulders--my partner and I received the last one. As we carried it off a cheer was raised by the other men.

At last the whistle blew and we fell in. The sky was still covered with dark, heavy clouds, but the snow had ceased to fall and the wind had dropped. We could see the dreary landscape a little better now. The railway lines curved away until, in the far distance, they ran into a ghostly procession of tall, slim poplars that filed across the dim horizon and marked the pa.s.sage of a main road. On one side of the lines long rows of dark squares in the snow showed where the sleepers had lain before we moved them. A brown stretch of churned and trodden mud and water connected them with the new stacks that extended in four rows along the other side of the lines. We had s.h.i.+fted five thousand eight hundred sleepers in all. Around us were level, snow-covered fields unrelieved by anything except an occasional tree and the farm. It consisted of three buildings, a house and two big barns, forming three sides of a square. The cottage had a low, thatched roof, dirty, whitewashed walls, and green shutters. In the middle of the square was a huge muck heap, covered with patches of melting snow. A pig was pus.h.i.+ng its snout into it here and there and grunting from time to time. There was no other sign of life anywhere. A dreary, depressing landscape!

"Remember Belgium!" said one of the men in the ranks derisively.

"We won't forget it in a hurry!"

"Fritz can have it for all I care!"

"He's welcome to it--I don't want it, I want to get back to Blighty!"

We were called to attention. The promised lorries were waiting for us--three lorries for eighty men. We marched towards them in file, but as we got nearer to them, the men broke rank and everybody rushed wildly to get in first so as to secure any available boxes or petrol-tins that might serve as seats. A noisy, turbulent throng cl.u.s.tered round each lorry. We scrambled in, pus.h.i.+ng, hustling, and swearing. We were soon so crowded together that there seemed to be no room for any more, but nevertheless more men climbed up and forced an entrance. We formed a compact ma.s.s and our picks and shovels were heaped on the floor in everybody's way.

The lorries started with a lurch so that we all staggered backwards.

They raced along, and b.u.mped, and swayed from side to side. The roof of the lorry in which I stood was so low that I had to keep my head bent forward all the time. The fumes from the exhaust made our eyes water and smart.

We reached camp after about half an hour's ride. We jumped out and lined up on the road. Sergeant Hyndman perceived the Commanding Officer strolling about amongst the tents and said to us in an awe-stricken voice:

"Smarten up a bit, for Christ's sake--there's the Captin walkin'

about--don't make no bloomers when yer dismissin' else yer'll get extra shovel-drill an' get me into trouble in the bargin. Mind yer salute prop'ly.... Party--Tshn! Inter File, Right Turn! Quick March!"

We wheeled into the camp holding our picks and shovels at the trail.

Our Commanding Officer stood still and watched us. As we pa.s.sed him the Sergeant yelled out with unaccustomed sharpness: "Eyes--Right!" We all turned our heads smartly to the right and he saluted with strained, affected precision. The Captain touched the peak of his cap in a perfunctory manner. He hardly seemed to be looking at us at all, but suddenly he spotted a man who was not holding his shovel perfectly horizontally and thundered:

"Hold your shovel properly, that man there!"

The man was disconcerted for a moment but soon re-adjusted his shovel to the satisfaction of his superior. The ground was so muddy and uneven that it was sometimes impossible to keep the exact military formation.

Without having noticed it, I was a little more than the regulation distance from the man in front of me.

"Close in there, you with the gla.s.ses," bawled the Captain in a resentful voice, as though my transgression were intended as a personal insult. But his anger was diverted by another man and he shouted with gathering fury:

"That tall man over there--hold your pick properly. Not like that, d.a.m.n it ... hold it at the point of balance--no, no, no, not like that ...

here, Sergeant, take that man's name and number and give it to the Corporal of the Police. He'll do half an hour's extra shovel-drill this evening."

We halted. The Sergeant made a note of the offender's name and then said to us in an awestruck whisper: "Now mind yer dismiss prop'ly for Christ's sake!"

We faced to the front and on the command "Dismiss!" we all turned to the right, raised our picks and shovels and transferred them from our right hands to our left, touched the peaks of our caps with our right hands, turning the palms outwards, paused a moment and then broke away.

"Fall in, fall in--very bad, very bad, absolutely disgraceful!" bawled our infuriated C.O. "If you don't do it correctly this time, you'll get an hour's extra drill every day for a week! Now dismiss them again, Sergeant!"

The prospect of extra drill filled us with dismay. Sore shouldered, stiff, and aching in every limb, oppressed and wearied in mind and body, we only had one intense desire--to get away, to hide somewhere, to enjoy at least a brief spell of warmth and comfort.

The Sergeant gave the command, and we dismissed a second time. We went through the absurd performance with anxious punctiliousness, but three men, either through fear, weariness or carelessness, made some slight mistakes and their names were taken for extra drill.

As soon as the men were off the parade ground there was a wild stampede in the direction of the cook-house.

The scramble became a mad hustle. The men raced along the duckboards or splashed through the mud in a frantic attempt to get served first, pulling their mess-tins and plates out of their haversacks as they ran.

It was growing dark and a few snowflakes were floating about in the air.

The sky was a murky leaden colour.